


Running Up That Hill

by FriendlyCybird



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 5 + 1, Gen, Hate that ends, Inspired and titled for a song, Sort-of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 06:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20634695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyCybird/pseuds/FriendlyCybird
Summary: Five times Ford was too angry to really connect with Stan,and the One Time he Finally Wasn't.





	1. You Don't Wanna Hurt Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fencesit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencesit/gifts).

Ford didn't mention how much it bothered him that Stan had picked up smoking. A token protest that "You _reek_ of cigarettes, Stanley." was met with laughter and a playful attempt to drive Ford's face into the crook of his neck to "Get a whiff, Sixer." Despite that, Stan had made an effort. The day after Ford's complaint, Stan took to wearing cologne. In excess. 

"You're wearing too much cologne, Stanley." Ford scolded. 

Stanley barked a laugh and stated "No such thing!" With a sort of sharp certainty that left no room for argument. 

The acrid stench of tobacco and ash still seeped its way into Stan's body under the overwhelming scent of Old Spice. Ford took to subtly trying to stand a step or two farther away from him or before but Stan didn't seem to get the message. He was always crowding in. Always throwing an arm around him. Always right there in Ford's space. 

Ford missed when Stan's presence had been reassuring. When trusting his brother to protect him had been a comfort rather than an insult. Stan was bigger, stronger, tougher, _better_. Ford redoubled his academic efforts. Mrs. Gerald laughed in his face when he asked for extra credit assignments in Chemistry, barking that "I don't give more than 100%, Pines. You're not the brother that needs the help."   
Stan took the extra credit assignment and let Ford do it for him. A 'win-win' scenario in which Ford got the extra work he wanted, and Stan got a boost to his grade. 

Technically, there was nothing inaccurate about that. Something to it twisted in Ford though, left him feeling bitter and tired as he clumsily matched chemical reactions with his left hand to disguise his handwriting. 

Stan wasn't home right then, but his smoke and cologne had started seeping into their bedroom too and sitting at his desk, trying to do Stan's work, Ford was seized with a sudden rage. 

It wasn't Fair. 

He'd never, once in his life, had his own space, to make his own decisions, or pursue his own interests. 

When the red cleared from Fords vision he tried to stabilize his breathing and assess the damage. It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. He'd just ripped the sheet from the bottom bunk. Pulled it down so it folded over with the blankets inside it, pillows on the floor. Nothing torn or destroyed the way some dark part of him had pushed into his imagination. 

He didn't fix Stan's bunk. Instead, he just returned to his bunk and tried to calm down, already planning excuses when Stan came home.


	2. See How Deep the Bullet Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One Time They Met in the Ten Years Apart

In the last days of their time as roommates, Fiddleford McGucket had all but physically forced Ford to apply for multiple positions at prestigious organizations all over the country. Jobs and Internships and, of course, the applications Ford really wanted to be writing, Grants. 

"I lost one dream, Fiddleford. I could have my pick of these places instead of scraping for interviews if I'd gone to West Coast Tech." He'd met his friends eyes and insisted, passionately "I can't lose another one." 

Fiddleford had scoffed, and looked away. "I reckon you haven't lost as much as you think, Stanford." he commented. "Maybe ya gotta fight a little harder, but -" he'd cut off suddenly, always the more perceptive of the pair. More aware of the effect his words might have on others. 

Ford was thinking about that exchange when the tap water in his Motel Room ran lukewarm. He was in Evansville, Indiana for an interview for a position as, of all things, a professor. Not something Ford really saw himself doing or imagined he had a talent for but then he'd learned from quite a few professors who had no talent for teaching so it wouldn't be the end of the world to do for a few years. Especially as there were research options that came with the position that he might be able to tweak toward his interests. 

All the same, it was more an open wound than the usual distant ache as he stepped out into the crisp night air and started toward the ice machine tucked into a nook between rooms across the parking lot. He was carrying one of the little plastic cups from the room, planning to fill it entirely with ice and use it in <s>its twin</s> the other cup for the remainder of the night to stay hydrated as he worked on yet another application for a grant to fund his independent research in Gravity Falls. 

There was a man standing by the ice machine, and if Ford had to summarize him in one word at a glance it would be 'trouble'. He wore a heavy coat despite the fact that it was a warm night and was holding a brown paper bag with a bottle in it that he was sipping out of when ford approached. Worst of all, he started talking as soon as Ford entered the little shelter and approached the machine.

Ford tuned him out, assuming it was nothing but drunken ramblings, the hypothetical allergen on top of an already disgusting sundae of a day. Then he fell blessedly silent, but only for a beat, before saying something that drew Ford's attention. "When'd you change clothes, 8-Ball?" 

It couldn't be. 

"I'm not 8-Ball." he said simply, maybe a bit more harshly than he remembered. His cup was full now, it was time to leave.  
He turned on his heal to do just that when the man shouted "No way! "You're kiddin, 8-Ball, c'mon, stop pullin my leg!" 

It couldn't be, but what if it was? Ford couldn't risk it, and so it was worth another risk. He raised his hand in answer and demanded "Does 8-Ball have six fingers?" Unfortunately, the response wasn't as instantaneous as he'd hoped. The man was clearly drunk, the way he lowered his bagged bottle and leaned in, squinting. When he reached out to grab Fords hand for farther study, Ford snapped his hand away and hurried off. 

He bumped shoulders with someone on his way out, and didn't dare look for fear that he knew who it was. Behind him, he heard the drunken shout of "Damn, 8-Ball, that guy looks just like you 'cept he has an extra finger!" 

There were murmured words as Ford tried to rush back to his room. He could hear his pulse in his ear and the ice was numbing his hand. It was him. It had to be. There was no one else it could be and that was only confirmed by the familiar voice, roughened some by age and smoke, calling out after him "Hey, Sixer!" 

Ford froze. He couldn't keep walking. Didn't want to turn around. 

There were footsteps behind him. They stopped a few feet away and Stanley, it was definitely Stanley, commented uncertainly "I uh, I go by 8-Ball these days. Long story. Andrew "8-Ball" Alcatraz." That got Ford to turn his head, look back over his shoulder. 

He'd let his hair curl. Stan never let his hair curl. On the rare occasion he grew it long enough that it tried he'd goop it down with so much product that it might snap in two from stiffness. Ford noticed that before he noticed the ridiculous triangle of facial hair on his chin. What's more he was not only going by some ridiculous nickname, but by a whole other name altogether! 

Then he glanced over Stanley's shoulder and saw the other man, now standing straight and tall and not looking nearly as drunk as he had earlier. A little thrill of fear went through Ford and his gaze snapped back and forth between his brother and the man who apparently had some sort of dealings with him. The one who was obviously trouble. Fear quickly gave way to frustration, and he groaned. "Eight. Ball." he echoed slowly, deliberately. 

Stan chuckled nervously. "That's my name." 

"No it isn't." Ford snapped and the sudden horror that played across Stan's face, the slight twitch of his head as he fought not to glance over his shoulder. The way his eyes turned pleading...it was almost soothing. A moment of real power, and the opportunity to destroy Stanley the same way Stanley had destroyed him. 

Ford glanced over Stan's shoulder again at the other man, watching the entire exchange warily. The set of his jaw, his shoulders. The plea under the laugh under Stan's protesting statement "Sixer..." and the realization that Stan wasn't using his name either, and wasn't for a damn good reason. 

The fear was enough. "Your name is Andrew Alcatraz and I'm _tired/i> of these idiotic nicknames of yours, even after all these years." Relief, affection, a genuine smile that Ford knew too well and needed to cut off fast. "You're even still calling me Sixer, like we're children. Grow up, Andrew." He glanced over Stan's shoulder again at his brother's criminal associate, then back at Stan before growling "...and get a real job." then turned on his heal and stalked back to his room, desperately pleading with the universe itself that Stanley wouldn't follow him. _

_He didn't._


	3. Unaware That I'm Tearing You Asunder, There's A Thunder in Our Hearts, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One where Stan isn't Stan

Shason Warect was The Criminal Mastermind on the Melicitly and, she was finally planning a heist against the Ablenglyn Conglomerate. Ford was watching his third sunrise since arriving on this massive space station when he got the news. That didn't sound like he'd been there long unless you knew that the Melicity revolved at a rate of approximately once every thousand earth standard hours. He'd been here four and a half months. 

It was even longer before he got in on Warect's crew. When the time finally came though, he froze halfway through the doorway. 

Seated at the table, to Warect's left, a face stared back at him nearly like looking in a mirror. His hair was cropped short now, as if only just growing out from having been shaved completely. His beard seemed to have had about as much growth as his hair. He wore a purple robe that he had tied low so as to give the neckline a deep V that showed off far too much of his chest, at this point the hairiest part of his body. 

The hands, five fingers on each, folded together with fingers interlaced while elbows rested on the round oak table that told Ford this wasn't his own doppleganger, but rather his twin. "Stanley?" he blurted out before so much as crossing the threshold. 

Behind him, something sharp pressed into his back. He glanced behind him and saw Afticill, a famed assassin of the Billize race, a bee-like species, had prodded him with a narrow limb to proceed into the room. Ford obeyed, and settled across from the man he hoped wasn't actually his brother. "Stanford?" The other man returned, sounding every bit as confused and perhaps a dozen other emotions as Stanford himself was feeling.

They didn't get the chance to discuss the matter further. Warect called the meeting to order, and plans were made. Ford had to refocus his attention on his goal. A pair of lificienne catalyzers. No one was even sure if the Ablenglyn Conglomerate would have more than two at the facility they were raiding. Ford needed both of them and that was all he needed. 

Stan snorted at him. "You know lificienne's useless, right?" he demanded. "Like trying to throw a punch without fingers." 

Ford just smirked at him, unable to resist. "Sure. Unless you have gestift." 

The series of colorful expletives Stanley launched into told Ford that his brother knew exactly what that chemical reaction would do, and he felt a little surge of pride go through him. He was reminded briefly of those rare nights when Stan understood the concept their homework was covering. The string ended with the demand "Where the _fuck_ did you get raw gestift?" 

"It's not raw," Ford corrected. "It's powdered." Stan, and several others at the table, gaped at him, and Ford smirked at all of them, feeling a genuine rush as he shut them all down with a simple statement of "And how I got it is no ones business but my own. Now, I believe our employer was explaining the priority of the security protocols we'll be bypassing?" 

The planning session ran for almost an hour, and then everyone went their separate ways. Like clockwork, Ford realized Stanley was following him. He turned down a back avenue, almost an ally, just wide enough for sanitation bots to collect the waste deposited from the various businesses back here. Stanley, as anticipated, followed.

What Ford didn't anticipated was Stanley's first question. "Why do you need the lificienne?" 

Ford turned the tables, and asked the question he'd been hoping for. "How are you here?" 

"How am I...!" Stanley began, incredulous "How are YOU here? You...you threw me through your... Whatever...Whatever to get rid of your damn book!" 

Ford startled and stared at him blankly, and Stan stared back, urgently and openly and nearer to tears than his expression would suggest but Ford still knew his tells too well. Even this, who was obviously - "I don't think you're my brother." 

"What?!" Stanley snapped "So now you're saying we're not brothers? Fine." He turned and started to stalk away and for reasons he didn't understand Ford reached out and caught him by the arm. 

"I mean -" he clarified "I think we're from different dimensions." A layer of tension visibly seeped out of Stan's back and shoulders as he turned slowly to face Ford who, for reasons he didn't understand, didn't let go of his elbow. "In my world you pushed me. You tried to destroy the book and were injured when I took it back from you." He hadn't ever put that moment into words before, it sounded so much more his own fault when phrased like that. Suddenly defensive, there was irritation in Ford's voice when he added "Then you lost your temper and started pushing me, and I was caught in the portal and fell through." 

Stan's expression went confused, then understanding slowly, painfully dawned. "...You're not My Stanford." 

Ford nodded, the words tearing strangely at one part of him while offering relief to another. "I'm not." he admitted. "Different worlds, I suppose. Different outcomes of our conflict." 

Stan's gaze changed suddenly, his eyes different than Ford had ever seen them. His breath caught as he tried to reconcile the sharp, electrified warning in them with the boy he'd grown up side-by-side with, and utterly failed. The reason came a moment later. "I guess we're strangers than." 

"Not -" Ford began, and all at once his voice stopped. His throat ached and his chest ached and his hands ached to be curled into fists and to throw another punch and another at the face just like his own. Just like his brothers. His eyes ached with the strain of holding back tears that he didn't understand, because they weren't just anger anymore. 

"No?" Stan prompted? And the slow, crawling spark of hope in his voice may as well have been a knife to Ford's throat. 

"No," Ford echoed "No, you're right. We practically are." He hesitated, then offered his hand. "It's ah - It's good to meet you then, Stanley." 

Stan stared at his hand a moment and Ford felt a spike of betrayal. The impulse to hide his hand behind his back again before the insults could start. Instead, Stan took it a little too hard and shook it twice, commenting "You too, Stanford." Then he paused and added "I still want to know why you need the lificienne" as he let go.

Ford managed a smirk, though not as dry as he would have liked. His whole being was wet with unshed tears. "Not exactly something I'd tell a stranger, is it?" 

Stan's gaze felt like being struck by lightning, and Ford could do nothing but stand there as he nodded, growled "Right," in a tone even lower than his usual gruff, smokers voice. Then he brushed past Ford and called behind him. "See ya later, Stanford." 

Ford stayed in that little garbage ally a lot longer than he wanted to.


	4. So Much Hate for the Ones We Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Kitchen

Even Stanley wouldn't be so irresponsible as to let the children be up and around at one in the morning. So that was the time Ford picked to slip upstairs to gather supplies. Hopefully Stanley stocked some sort of non-perishables in the kitchen that Ford could rightfully steal away to his study.

To his surprise, the cupboard to the right of the sink where Ford had once kept cans, there was instead basic staples. Flour, Rice, Beans, even large bags of potato flakes. Which would be all well and good if Ford had a cooking element or even running water in his study but as it was he'd have to keep searching. 

As he stood up again to do just that the door into the rest of the house slammed open hard. Ford startled despite himself and braced against the counter, left hand curling around the faux marble plastic to secure himself and right slipping under his jacket to rest on the hilt of his firearm. He hesitated a moment to get a look at his target before drawing on it and was glad he did because the figure in the door was wide, his own height, and had his face.   
"Stanley!" he admonished. "I could have killed you!" 

"Yeah, right." Stanley grumbled. He too, it seemed, was posed defensively, a gold knuckleduster fitted over his left fingers, another down to the first knuckle over his right being slid the rest of the way down. "Was getting ready to knock your block off. Don't scare me like that!" 

"Scare you!" Ford argued reflexively. While aware that Stanley had a point, he was being unnecessarily noisy in the wee hours of the morning, "I'm not the one throwing doors open and startling people!" 

"Sure sounded like you were throwing something!" Stan's voice was unregulated, and Ford was briefly concerned he'd wake the children. 

He ignored that concern and matched his volume instead. "It's my house, Stanley, I've a right to make as much noise as I like." 

"Maybe it's your house," Stan conceded "But you're not gonna find any of your _stuff_ here, Stanford. That's all mine. So I don't know what you were doing snooping around the cupboards but you're not gonna find anything that belongs to you." 

Ford's blood boiled. Was Stanley really saying he'd planned to deny him food? How was he meant to find his own? Instead of asking, or even demanding, those answers, instead he snapped back "Consider it repayment for the food of mine you ate and the LIFE of mine you stole!" He wished he had a door to slam. Instead he turned and slammed open a cupboard door.   
It led to under the sink. Ford hadn't been paying attention and the embarrassment only fueled his irrational rage. He slammed the cupboard closed again and stepped away, trying to assess where something good to eat might be. His hands were trembling, so he sucked in a long breath and tried to force calm through him to still them. 

His effort was instantly disrupted by Stanley's remarks. "Gonna eat the Cleaning Supplies, Sixer? Yeesh. Even I never got that desperate." The noise that Ford made was something near inhuman, and may have contained a profanity or five in either guttural negona or dauggler click-calls. Despite being aware of neither species or language, Stanley still snapped "Watch it, Stanford, there're kids in the house." 

Ford opened the cupboard on the other side of the sink and finally found what he was looking for. Canned goods. He crouched down, as much to have an excuse to face away from his brother as to examine his options. "The children should be in bed, Stanley." 

For a long, blessed moment, there was silence. The moment rapidly became uncomfortable as Ford realized he was being silently judged. It was hard to focus on dinner options while being judged. A moment later Stan commented "Well, somebody's obviously forgotten what it's like to be twelve." 

Mixed Vegetables and Fruit Cocktail were both among the options. Ford grabbed both cans. While if he went down to the farther basement level he would have the means available to open them, he'd rather just use a can opener, so he started with the top drawer, traditionally for silverware, looking for one. "Are our Niece and Nephew really so much like you?" he asked disdainfully, because there was no room in this discussion for a conversation other than disdain. 

"Niece can be a bit like you sometimes," Stan commented, leaning on the doorframe. "Mostly with the not shutting up and making a mess in the kitchen. The difference is she makes it cute." 

"I'm not making a mess!" Ford snapped defensively, slamming the drawer shut. From the rattling sound inside he would guess that had become untrue exactly as he said it. 

Stan rolled his eyes. "I meant when we were kids, Genius." Ford opened the next drawer down, spotted the can opener instantly, and moved aside several other large utensils to grab it. He started toward the door, drawing himself up to his full height to tower over his slouching brother as the dread that Stanley would try to stop him for one reason or another. 

He didn't, instead stepping aside and letting Ford pass him easily, both cans and the opener in hand. As he started down the hall away from him, Ford felt as though he were leaving something incomplete. The conversation, most likely. Unpleasant as it had been, it deserved a conclusion. Stanley deserved a conclusion. Ford offered one. "Goodnight, Stanley."   
"Yeah, yeah." Stan dismissed. Then "Hey, Bring that can opener back in the morning or you'll owe me a new one!" 

Ford ignored him.


	5. Tell Me We Both Matter, Don't We?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After The End

Stanley would be okay. 

Ford should be, _**was**_, elated. 

Bill was dead. Ford's goal of decades was accomplished. Ultimately, Ford had even pulled the trigger. A perversion of everything he'd ever wanted. The price for defeating Bill had been Stanley's life instead of his own, and in the moment Ford had been too overcome with grief to be enraged by that. Now that Stan would be okay though, the grief had passed and he had time for the old familiar hatred to set back in.

It wasn't just his hate for Bill though. 

Of course Stanley would be okay. Of course Stanley was the perfect hero, who could sacrifice everything and be saved by the power of love. Of Course. Stanley had always been about Love, hadn't he? Nauseating, Heartfelt, Suffocating Love. That's what he was good at. That's why he offered. Not to save the world. Not for some heroic ideal. Not even for revenge. 

Love. 

In the end, that was what mattered. 

In the end, Ford's entire life was nothing but failure. 

Bitterness rose in his throat like bile and he longed for the accompanying nausea so he could empty his stomach of what little he'd put into it. It wasn't a surprise, was it? That Stanley had accomplished Stanford's lifelong goal in his place. That fate had twisted to make Stanley the successful twin in the end? 

To make him the hero?

Ford had turned his back on his brother, perhaps when Stan had needed him most. Ford had been deceived by a being of ultimate evil, and hurt everyone that cared about him. Ford had done what good he was able out in the multiverse. He had also done unspeakable harm. He was no hero. 

So what was he then? 

Would he have to define himself around Stanley again? 

The thought made him feel ill, and he curled in on himself, waiting for sleep to claim him and take him away from these thoughts. This question. Sleep did not come any easier than it ever did though, and Ford was left to consider. 

What was left for him to be going forward?


	6. You...You and Me... You and Me Won't Be Unhappy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The One Where Ford Finally Lets Go and Is Happy

They had bunk beds again. 

"We're gonna need bunk beds." had been Stan's first words on seeing the small bedroom below deck on the Stan O'War II. Ford had tried to argue for a pair of cots but Stan had been unwilling to hear it. "First of all, I need a real mattress, Sixer. We coulda done the cot thing when we were kids but now? I like being able to stand up straight. I need a mattress." 

Ford had rolled his eyes, he remembered. Said something maybe he shouldn't have about his twins selfishness. Stanley hadn't said anything. Instead, he'd just quietly installed a work bench opposite the bunks alongside the door and asked for help securing Ford's more sensitive research equipment to it. Ford didn't realize until he was halfway up the ladder to the top bunk that he wouldn't have had room for that bench if they'd tried to fit two cots into this tiny space. 

He wondered if Stan had known that too. 

They were still docked tonight. The plan was to set sail in the morning, but Stan wasn't willing to spend a dime more on the motel, or let Ford pay for it either. Not after how much they'd spent on the boat, on furnishing it, on bringing it up to code. Stan had dragged his feet about that last part but Ford had spoken from experience. The cost of the safety features was a lot less than the fine they would have to pay if they got caught without it. 

"Can't we just duck the fine?" Stan had protested as they stood on the deck, surveying the work that needed to be done. With the right parts it could be done in an afternoon. 

Ford had shrugged. "I imagine so. Of course, no doubt they'd look for us." A look of excitement passed between them, the thrill of once again being a wanted fugitive something that Ford had never expected to be able to share with his brother. Then Ford had added "Of course, they might start taking the money through taxes on any businesses we own or harassing our relatives for it..." 

They made the purchase, did the work, and all but bodily dragged an inspector out to get the boat approved for the open sea before offices closed for the night. It'd been a good day. Satisfying in a way few had been in his adult life. Those few that were, now, were now weighted with double-meanings and hints of coming betrayal. While memories of days like this from childhood were clearing of a similiar miasma. 

"Stanley?" Ford called, voice soft, down to the bottom bunk.

"Hmm?" Stan called in return, no sleep in his voice. 

Ford found a note of laughter in his voice when he asked "Can you sleep?" 

Stan scoffed. "Probably not." 

"Why?" Ford asked, hoping he knew. Hoping it was good. 

"New place." Stan answered, and Ford felt his heart drop. "I never sleep good in a new place." 

That didn't seem quite right. "You slept just fine our first night in the motel." There was no reply for a moment. "Stanley?" Ford pressed. 

"Right. Can't see me shrug. Uhhh..." he grumbled, then "Nothin new about motels, I guess? Seen one, seen 'em all?" Ford huffed a bit and stared up at the ceiling. It was grey-brown and dull, flat, nothing interesting to even pretend to look at. After a moment Stanley spoke again. "Why can't you sleep?" 

Ford struggled with himself for a moment, and then he let go. He allowed himself honesty. "I'm too excited." 

"Yeah?" Stan asked, then "Gotta be somethin real crazy up in the arctic, huh? Think we're gonna be the first ones to find it?" 

Ford felt his mind screech to a halt. He shifted, almost without thought, and leaned down, letting his head hang over the edge of the top bunk so he could see his brother. Stan was laying partway onto one side, facing the work bench. His expression was reserved, bordering on hopeful but restrained. "It's a two week journey to the arctic, Stanley." Ford reported. "I can't let myself get too excited about those discoveries yet, I'll make myself sick getting worked up about them." 

Stan blinked, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Then what?" 

It was obvious now, and a part of Ford wanted to berate Stanley for doubting. Another part understood, knew it was reasonable, and felt an incredible relief at the realization. Like a painful abscess he'd carried for years had finally finished draining. A weight he'd carried longer than he could properly remember had lifted. It was with that lightness that he smiled down at his twin now and reported "The launch of the Stan O'War Two, Of course! What did you think I was talking about, knucklehead?" 

Stan grinned brightly at him. Something Ford had never expected to see and felt he would never tire of seeing. "Oh yeah. I'm excited for that too." 

"Would you like to go back on deck and run through the preparation checklist another time or two? Just to be sure? Maybe we'll wear ourselves out enough to get some rest before sunrise." 

Stan got an elbow under him, tilting his head slightly with a considering expression even as he sat up. Then he nodded. "Sure. Let's go."


End file.
